


Risk and Reward

by Awn (Skye1456)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Idolizations, M/M, Religious Fanaticism, Sexual Interfacing, Siblings that hate each other, please bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skye1456/pseuds/Awn
Summary: Optimus Prime is a kind and gracious leader. He understands that his followers respond not just to punishment, but also to positive reinforcements--rewards. Thus, he has taken to surrendering himself--body and all--to the whims of those he deems deserving of special recognition.These rewards are revered, and highly sought after. No two rewards are the same, as the Prime is something different for every bot.
Relationships: Jazz/Optimus Prime, Ricochet/Optimus Prime
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Jazz (and Ricochet)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seriously written anything for myself and not just for school in like...six years. I'm proud of me for this.  
> Keep in mind that this is Shattered Glass. The Autobots are kinda forked.
> 
> I'll update tags with each chapter as I figure this out.

“Ricochet, I think you are due for a reward.” 

Jazz is seething. He has been ever since Ricochet stumbled out of the wreckage of the collapsed refinery. Not only that of course, he had came out with a data-stick loaded up with all of the information they sought and then some. 

At the time Jazz had been caught up in an unexpected reunion with Soundwave and their minicons, so his accursed twin had been left alone to accomplish their mission objective and did so with flying colours. 

_Upon the Matrix_ , Jazz swears. _I’m gonna tear those tiny twins apart and use their pile drivers to bash Soundwave’s telepathic head in._

Ricochet getting acknowledged was practically a foregone conclusion, and being rewarded by their lord was obvious. It wasn’t hard to figure out what their master wanted when he asked to speak with Ricochet after the Autobot council adjourned. 

He’s not surprised, so Jazz seethed all the more. 

“Oh Master,” Ricochet drawls, looking damn happy with himself. “Thank you.”

Optimus Prime stands up from his seat, standing several heads above his twin bodyguards. 

“We can go now if you wish.” he says. 

“Ooh yes! Yes yes yesyesyes!” Ricochet slinks forward and firmly wraps himself around one of Optimus’s arms. He chuckles giddily. 

_How dare he_. Jazz thinks scathingly. Ricochet presses himself tighter against the larger mech’s side, smiling up at him with all of his fangs on clear display. 

Oh how Jazz wants to wipe that smile clear off of his face, to tear out all of the teeth his brother liked so much. To break his neck or rip off his head so Ricochet couldn’t make a nauseating show of nuzzling up against Optimus Prime’s arm like some domesticated turbofox. 

Of course, Optimus Prime was just letting it all happen, but Ricochet was being rewarded. Letting Ricochet do what he likes with him is all part of it. 

“Let’s go to my quarters, master!”

Jazz scoffs. “And d’you plan on clingin’ on to him the entire way there?” 

Ricochet turns his helm towards his brother. His happy smile turning smug and mocking while his yellow visor flashes brighter. 

“Sure why not?” Ricochet replies. “Would that be all right master?”

“If you want to, Ricochet. I see no reason why you can’t.” Optimus answers, his deep voice which is usually strong and commanding, is soft and low. 

The resonant tone soothes Jazz’s anger, but only just. _Oh master you’re far too kind. Much too lenient with the undeserving._

Jazz’s softened mood doesn’t last long as Ricochet speaks again. “Will you be joining us, brother?”

Jazz’s clenched fist tightens, his claws threatening to sink into his own palm. 

It’s Jazz that usually earns their lord’s favour, and he works hard to stay in the spotlight while his manic brother trails behind. Jazz is the cool and collected one. He completes complicated spec ops missions and makes intelligent suggestions. Ricochet is the insane berserker who tears mechs apart on the battlefield and causes wanton destruction wherever he goes. 

However as spark twins—for better or worse, regardless of what either twin wants—the two of them are a package deal. While they’ve long since blocked out their connection to each other’s feelings and thoughts, they can’t be separated for too long before it begins to affect their health. So even though Optimus Prime’s rewards are supposed to be private affairs between him and the one being rewarded, when one of the twins are involved, the other usually tags along. 

In this case, the other would usually be Ricochet, watching from several paces behind as Jazz takes their master for himself. 

Needless to say, Jazz does not enjoy having the tables turned on him. 

“Hm? Jazz?” 

He doesn’t have to go. They’re within the Autobot Complex and the reward period never lasts for any longer than a day. There were plenty of things Jazz could busy himself with while Ricochet takes his reward. Jazz takes pride in the fact that he is not nearly as perverse as his brother. He would not take pleasure in whatever depravity Ricochet would surely rain down upon their far too generous leader. 

He really does _not_ have to go with them. _Really_. But Jazz would be fragged if he was going to leave Ricochet unsupervised and unimpeded in his actions. 

“Yeah, I’ll be tagging along.” Jazz answers through gritted teeth. 

Ricochet beams, Optimus nods, and Jazz’s ember is aflame with rage. 

———-

Jazz is not used to trailing behind his master. 

He’s usually at his master’s side or in front of him. He is his treasured bodyguard, his first line of defence against those who stand against the Primacy, and the Autobot Imperium. Not that the Autobot leader can’t defend himself, or that he would die so easily—as a matter of fact, thanks to the Matrix and its power, killing Optimus Prime is a nigh impossible task—but it simply wouldn’t do for the Prime to have to deal with every assassin and terrorist that came tumbling through. 

That’s what Jazz and Ricochet are for. It’s what they’ve taken pride in for several million years. 

Being forced to walk behind the Prime, especially with Ricochet hanging off of him, fills Jazz with boundless anxiety.

Autobot territory or not, there are still plenty of bots who would prefer Optimus not be in charge. Rodimus, for an obvious example, could be hiding in wait anywhere. It wouldn’t be the first time that treacherous wretch has tried to take down Optimus Prime by jumping out from behind a corner and shoving a javelin straight through his chest.

Despite himself, Jazz is relieved when the doors to his and Ricochet’s respective quarters come into view. The twin’s quarters are directly across from one another; separate, but not too far apart—what a frustratingly accurate metaphor for their whole lives. 

With a small whine, Ricochet peels himself away from the Prime to input his room’s access code. 

Jazz glances behind himself towards his own room. He could go in there, lock himself in while Ricochet takes Prime into his own room. Jazz wouldn’t be too far away. 

He doesn’t have to go in with them. He really really doesn’t. 

The doors to Ricochet’s quarters slide open, and Jazz follows his brother and master inside. 

Jazz doesn’t make a habit of visiting his twin’s personal quarters very often. He’s slightly surprised to find that it is not in complete and utter disarray. 

Then again, why would it be? Other than the weapons they’ve accumulated over the millennia Jazz and Ricochet don’t have many personal belongings, not much to make a mess with. 

Quietly, Jazz settles himself into the corner furthest from the berth and steels himself for whatever comes next. 

“When was the last time you were rewarded, Ricochet?” Optimus asks. 

“Mm, quite a bit ago master.” Ricochet answers.

Optimus nods. “It was hasn’t it. I’m afraid I don’t know what it is that you desire.” 

“Well, last time I rode you to overload. But I’ve seen dearest Jazz do that plenty of times since then.” Ricochet smirks mockingly as he turns to Jazz, who does everything he can to keep himself in his corner. 

Ricochet turns back towards the Prime.

“I’d like something different. To do something different.” Ricochet’s smile falters ever so slightly, as though he’s nervous. He falls uncharacteristically quiet. 

Optimus continues to stare down at the shorter bot, his bright red optics boring into his bodyguard. 

“ _Ricochet_ ,” Optimus speaks. He accentuates every syllable, each sound rolling out of his vocalizer in a low, torturously sensual tone. Taking Ricochet’s chin in one servo, the taller mech lifts his helm so the golden visor could meet intense red optics. “I am here to reward you. What is it that you desire of me?”

Ricochet shudders, the infamous Autobot berserker becoming docile before his gracious lord. 

Jazz also shudders, but from jealously more so than pleasure.

“I—you—p-please sit on my berth,” Ricochet whispers breathlessly. Optimus strokes his chin a few times before moving to obey. 

As the Prime moves away, Ricochet tilts his helm slightly towards his brother, visor bright with bliss and toothy grin wide and excited. 

There’s a loud creaking as Optimus’s hulking frame settles down on the berth. 

Ricochet licks his lips and practically skips over to the berth. Jazz tries to keep himself in his corner, and not across the room strangling his obnoxious brother. 

Ricochet crawls onto the berth, atop Optimus. He buries his face in the larger mech’s neck cables, sighing loudly. 

“I want you, master,” Ricochet moans. His servos begin exploring the larger mech’s wide expanse of a chest, tentative claws trailing across seams. “I want all of you.”

Optimus shifts, placing a large servo behind Ricochet’s helm. “Then I am yours.”

The next dozen or so minutes are filled with low, pleasured groans as the two mechs grind against one another. Ricochet pushes against Prime with manic ecstasy, his body moving swiftly and his mouth freely traversing the idiosyncrasies of his master’s throat and chin. Optimus isn’t nearly as outwardly enthusiastic, but the way he leans back, his servos firmly on Ricochet’s moving hips, suggests that he’s enjoying his bodyguard’s reward as well. 

If only Jazz could say the same. 

If the roles were as they should be it would be about now—or even earlier—when Ricochet would retract his modesty panelling and begin to shamelessly pleasure himself to the show. It’s always a messy, disgusting display, but Jazz would revel in the knowledge that his twin is alone. He takes great pleasure in speculating just how much his brother wants what is right in front of him. Just close enough to be certain that it is real, but just too far to actually reach.

Jazz can’t deny the growing heat in his frame, but he would be damned before he gives Ricochet the gratification of seeing him break down in pleasure. The fragger's already being intimate with their master, he doesn’t need anymore. 

So Jazz forces himself to stand stock still and watch. 

The entanglement of the two mech’s bodies continue. Ricochet has maneuvered himself lower, his chin now touching the tip of Optimus’s panelling. His servos pass over the metal. 

“M-master,” Ricochet says. “Your…your p-pan-pa—“

One mechanical hiss and whirring later, Optimus’s glorious—and noticeably wet—interface equipment is laid bare to the world. 

Ricochet giggles, hoisting himself upwards and retracting his own modesty. 

Behind his visor Jazz’s optics twitch. He steels himself for what comes next. 

Ricochet stares at the Prime’s equipment, panting like the mechanimal in heat that he is.

He speaks, voice laden with static. “Master. C-can I—I-I wan-t-to—in y-you…s-spike. You.”

…what?

“Whatever you desire Ricochet.”

 _What_?

Ricochet lowers, aligning himself with the Prime’s entrance—

Jazz is halfway across the room before he realizes what he’s doing. When he does, he doesn’t bother trying to stop himself anymore. 

Spike Prime? Absolutely not! There must be—there has to be a limit. Jazz cannot let his brother take advantage of his reward like this. Especially when Jazz himself has never—

“ _Jazz_.” 

It’s Optimus. He’s on his back, interface array bare and by all unfortunate accounts about to be used. Just a moment ago he was throwing his helm back, lost in ecstasy alongside Ricochet. Yet somehow his helm is now turned, crimson optics burning with barely withheld fury. 

“Do not interfere.” His voice is clear, powerful, commanding. As though he were leading a war council rather than splayed out on a berth in the middle of a ‘facing session. “Stand down. Or get. Out.”

_Rewards are important, and private. Should they be unrighteously disturbed, the guilty party will be punished with extreme prejudice._

When he had first implemented this reward system, Optimus had made himself very clear in just how the rewards should be treated by everyone. Ultra Magnus, legendary tester of his Prime brother’s boundaries, had once stormed in on one of Goldbug’s rewards. Later, his pretty frame could be seen broken and dangling at the forefront of the collection of corpses surrounding the smelting pool.

Magnus, mad mech that he is, could laugh and treat the event as a joke now—Optimus too, would sometimes join him—but the precedent had been set. The message received loud and clear. To interrupt the Prime’s generosity is to become a lifeless husk. 

Jazz is shaking as he retreats back to his corner. He walks slowly, and stiffly. He doesn’t get to see Ricochet’s spike enter the Optimus’s valve but he hears it. He hears Ricochet get louder and Optimus’s voice hitch. Jazz hears the wetness of the valve as Ricochet’s spike slides in and out of it faster and faster. 

By the time Jazz does turn around again, the two interfacing bodies are steaming in one another’s thrall.

Ricochet’s hips move back and forth manically while Optimus throws his helm back deeper and deeper into the berth. 

And Jazz watches it all, not daring to move from the corner again.

His brother’s moans are so loud they could almost be mistaken for screams. Fluid streams out of his open mouth and his visor is so bright it’s almost white. There’s no technique, no thought put into any of his movements. He’s barely paying attention to the mech beneath him. 

Jazz is horrified. Disgusted. 

Ricochet has been given the chance to do anything with the Optimus Prime. Master of the Autobot Imperium. The Strongest Mech on Cybertron. Jazz and Ricochet’s beloved saviour. 

Jazz isn’t particularly religious, neither is Ricochet. They don’t care much about Primus, the Primacy, the Matrix or whatever else Ironhide and his fanatical ilk like to preach about. Their faith doesn’t lie with any of the mysticism, but with the mech. The one that tore down the institution that enslaved them and lifted them higher than either of them could have ever dreamed of going. 

They owe everything to Optimus Prime, and this loathsome animal is using him like a sex toy. 

Maybe he should let this slip to Ironhide. The zealot would probably tear off Ricochet’s spike. Try to anyway. 

That image brings the smallest of smiles onto Jazz’s face, his imagination splitting his attention just enough to ease his burden. 

Jazz gets so caught up in his murderous fantasies that he misses the climax—or, climaxes. 

When his attention returns to Ricochet’s berth, the two mechs atop it have fallen into recharge. Ricochet lies sprawled out across Optimus’s frame, who has one arm wrapped around the smaller mech in what looks to be a very tender embrace. 

Jealousy pings Jazz’s ember once again, but at least the worst is finally over. 

After a moment’s consideration, he slides down to sit on the floor and attempts to get some rest himself. 

———-

“Sleepin’ on the job, are we now Jazzy?”

Jazz jolts awake, optics onlining with a flash and combat programs threatening to overtake his limbs. 

Ricochet stands above him. His twin’s red and black frame is shining, and smells of solvent. Absolutely no traces of his reward remain, unless Jazz considers the blissful demeanour. Nothing physically appears to be different but Ricochet is positively overflowing with euphoria, and Jazz doesn’t need a spark twin bond to sense it. 

“How long’s it been?” Jazz demands, jumping to his full height. 

“The second moon is rising so, a couple of hours.” Ricochet answers, chuckling. “What kinda bodyguard are you, Jazzy? Leaving our master and I defenceless for so long.”

The corner of Jazz’s mouth twitches. “Sorry, Rico, couldn’t help myself. The show was so borin’ it coulda lulled a turbo-rabbit hopped up on circuit boosters into a coma.”

Ricochet’s smirk morphs into a growl, and Jazz is suddenly much happier than he’s been all day. 

“You—“

“That’s enough.” 

Both twins turn to stand at attention before their master, who’s frame is just as fresh looking as Ricochet’s. 

…did they use the wash racks together? 

Jazz had no time to ponder as Optimus continued. 

“We must be on our way. Prowl has called for a war council to discuss Tyger Pax.” 

“Yes master,” the twins say in unison. 

Optimus nods, his normal, firm presence replacing the quiet submissiveness he’d taken on with Ricochet. 

Jazz’s ember swells with relief. 

_Finally_ , he thinks gleefully. _It’s all reset. Everything’s back to normal._

As Optimus begins making his way towards the door, Ricochet opens it and exits first. 

He is ahead, in Jazz’s place. 

Just as Jazz threatens to seethe again, he feels a large, heavy servo on his shoulder. 

Jazz looks up to his master, who gazes back with a soft expression. 

“Jazz,” he says. “My dearest Jazz. Keep your helm high. I need you at your best.”

His servo passes over Jazz’s cheek before he follows Ricochet out the door. 

Dumbfounded, it takes Jazz a moment to recollect himself and follow suit. When he catches up to the other two mechs, he’s trailing ever so slightly behind Optimus.

Clutching his cheek, Jazz smiles. 

_There’s pride to be found in watching the Prime’s back_ , Jazz thinks. _He knows I’m here. And…he’s just as lovely from behind._

Of course though, this doesn’t mean Jazz will sit back and let Ricochet receive another reward again anytime soon.


	2. Ironhide

Ironhide gazes at the Lord Prime in admiring reverence. 

He takes in the great broadness of his shoulders, the exquisite curve of his hips, the vibrant violet and black that adorns his frame and makes him sparkle like a jewel in the midday sun. From the top of his armoured helm to the bottom of his massive pede Optimus Prime was the image of perfection. 

Then again, what else would he be? He was Primus’s chosen, of course it would show in his frame. Moulded and reshaped by the almighty creator’s hand to contain Their divinity in the mortal plane. 

Ironhide sighs to himself. It’s been several thousand years but sometimes he still can’t believe it. He stands at the side of a Prime. A _real_ Prime. None of those pretenders—those blasphemers and heathens supported by the high council of infidels. 

No, Ironhide serves only the true Prime. A bearer of the Matrix of Leadership, recipient of Primus’s grace and all of the power that comes with it. 

He trails behind Optimus Prime’s escort—the Lord Prime and his detestable twin bodyguards—as they stroll through the Iacon market. It’s particularly lively today, as everyone is out busy preparing for the upcoming WellSpring Festival. Though, whenever the Lord Prime comes near the crowd stills, splits, and bows. 

Ironhide scans the crowd as they pass through, almost daring anyone to showcase any signs of irreverence before their lord and master. Thankfully though, no one does. At least none that he can see. He’s famous in his own right, for his enthusiastic piety—though some prefer to call it mad zealotry—and how dedicated he is to upholding the sanctity of the Primacy. 

Though his attention to the crowd is split between his loving gazes at his master. The Lord Prime has stopped at a booth, looking over the sweets on display. After a little while, he picks out two boxes he wishes to purchase. The merchant behind the counter shakes her helm and servos frantically, insisting that the Prime may take whatever he likes. Soundly ignoring the frantic merchant, Prime inserts his data wire into the payment port just off to the side. There’s a ping, the merchant looks at the screen beside her, and then she breaks into frenzied cries of reverential gratitude. 

Prime acknowledges her with a curt nod before moving on, boxes in hand. 

Ironhide can’t help but be in awe of his lord’s humility and generosity. He is strong and kind, beloved by the Great Creator. Why anyone would wish to defy his will is beyond comprehension. 

Prime turns, bringing Ironhide out of his thoughts. The sweets box is open and he’s offering it to him. 

The pious mech smiles, moving forward to accept the share. Forward he moves, but suddenly the box is moving away. No wait—the mech holding it is falling backwards. 

Ironhide’s gaze shoots upwards, catching Prime’s widened optics, and the hole that’s appeared between them, spewing energon. He collapses onto the ground with a loud thump. The surrounding crowd devolves into a frenzy, and the Prime’s so called bodyguards have the gall to stand there and look shocked. 

Ironhide can’t think of many other times he’s wanted to tear through their split sparks this badly. _You two idiots have one job!_

Granted, their stupor lasts for only microseconds, and then they’re crouched at their master’s side, weapons out and scanning the crowd. 

Ironhide remains upright and begrudgingly waits for word from one of the twins. He hates to admit it, but in this maddened crowd they’re far more likely to spot deviants than he is. Precision, pursuit, and elimination is what they’re internal programming is optimized for, the reason the old high council built them.

Moments later, it’s Ricochet who perks up and points. 

“There!” he shouts, baring his fangs. “Silver and gold! Doorwings!”

Ironhide whips to the direction the twin points to. He spots the mech in question. The difference is slight, but that mech runs with a clearer purpose than those in the crowd surrounding him. While everyone else is in a chaotic panic, this bot is running in a straight line _away_. 

Optics clear on his target, Ironhide bounds through the crowd. The running mech turns his head, spots his pursuer, and then he transforms. 

_He fraggin’ transforms._ The idiot. 

“Everyone out of the way!” Ironhide has taken out his shotgun and the moment anyone catches sight of it they’re immediately moving out of its range. Within moments, the armed mech has a clear view on his driving target. He aims, and two clean shots later the silver gold mech is tumbling and crashing out of his alt-mode. 

Ironhide strolls up to the mech rolling in pain on the ground. When his assailant is looming over him the mech raises his pistol but its kicked out of his servo before he can even graze the trigger. 

“You crazy fragging temple-mech! Prime spike-worshipping bootlicker—“

Ironhide brings his heavy pede down on the mech’s leg with as much force as he can muster, resulting in a satisfying crunch, simultaneously keeping him from running again and cutting off the string of blasphemy spewing from his victim’s vocalizer. 

“That’s enough for now, sinner.” Ironhide says, barely controlling his growing rage. 

He grabs one of the mangled mech’s door wings and begins dragging him back towards the shot Prime. 

With the danger averted, the crowd is relaxing and slowly beginning to go back about their business, though keeping out of Ironhide’s way as he walks. Some mutter curses as he goes by, a few even stopping to kick at the mech being dragged. 

Though most of the crowd have dispersed, there are still a cluster of bots who’ve gathered around the downed Prime. Not terribly close of course, Jazz and Ricochet keep them soundly at bay. 

The Lord Prime lies motionlessly. Ironhide grits his teeth at the sight of that beautiful frame on the filthy ground in a heap, optics dark, a pink puddle of energon growing around the bullet wound and staining his helm. 

“Has he healed yet?” Ironhide asks once he’s close enough. 

Jazz looks down, tentatively grazing a finger against his master’s faceplate. The action makes Ironhide want to fly into a rage. _How dare this useless assassin lay his grimy servos upon his master, when he couldn’t even perform his one task of protecting him from harm?_

Instead, Ironhide does his best to retain his composure as Jazz shakes his helm. 

“Right through the brain module.” he says. “Usually takes him a little bit if it’s one o’ the Trinity.”

Almost as if he’d heard him, Prime’s helm twitches. There’s a low rumbling in his frame, and then a crisp crackling sound. Ironhide leans forward to get a better look. 

Within the hole between his optics, one can glimpse at the internal wiring and mechanism reforming. The exit wound closes and the rest of the Prime begins to move. He sits up and the rest of his head wound closes up. It’s almost like the work of nanites, or even scraplets, but the repair is too fast, too clean, too perfect. 

Only one thing it can be—The divine power of the Matrix of Leadership upon its sacred vessel.

Ironhide—and he assumes everyone else around as well—watches in awe. It isn’t everyday he gets to see Primus’s grace in person. When the Lord Prime’s optics light up once again, there’s nary a scar nor scuff mark to be found anywhere on his helm. 

There are low whispers of praise and prayers from the worshipful Iaconian crowd. Jazz and Ricochet rush forward, fussing over their newly revived master. 

_Astonishing._ Ironhide thinks wistfully. 

“What the frag?” 

Ironhide growls. A mech really can’t have any moment of pious joy. 

“I-I killed you.” The shooter stammers. “That shot was dead on.”

“I commend you. It was.” Lord Prime stands up to his full height, towering over the wannabe killer and engulfing him in shadow. “And I have risen.”

Off to the side, the boxes of sweets he bought are broken and the treats inside have been scattered across the ground, some in the energon spilt from the bullet. Prime considers them, and then sighs.

“Shooting me in broad daylight.” Optimus says. “Please, do not tell me that Megatron has become so desperate.”

The shooter doesn’t answer, his mouth firmly clamped shut. 

“It would seem, that our day out has come to an unfortunately early end.”

———

The silver-gold mech—Downshift, he says his designation is—is seated, paralyzed, strapped to a medical berth. A thick wire is connected to the base of his cranium, linked to a computer under the attentive servos of Perceptor. Optimus sits before him, and in lieu of his regular security detail—they’ve been dismissed for the time being—Ironhide stands off to side of the lab watching sternly. 

After several moments of silence, the scientist presses a button on the board.

Downshift seizes, and then speaks. “No! No, Megatron had nothing to do with my actions.”

Prime strokes his chin, nodding. “Dissent. I see. And, tell me, just how is Megatron doing lately?”

Downshift’s optics are bulging out of their sockets. They dart about, as if he’s looking for a way out of his predicament. There is none. He seizes again. 

“I don’t know! I’ve left the Decepticons, I haven’t seen any of their high command for months!” 

“May I ask why?” What a disingenuous question. As if Downshift could refuse him. 

“It’s not what I signed up for. I wanted to fight Autobot tyranny, instead I hid in shadows, moving about like a rat and coming out only to make pinprick dents in the Imperium! Nothing will come of stealth and reconnaissance if we don’t use them for the offensive. He talks big but Megatron is a cowardly fool!”

Prime’s fingers against his facemask twitch. He speaks, his voice suddenly cold.“Well, that cowardly fool isn’t the prisoner now is he?”

Prime stands, Ironhide moves to his side. 

“Perceptor.”

“My lord?” 

“Strip his processor of anything useful and then dump the rest into the smelting pit.”

Perceptor bows in his seat and Prime leaves, Ironhide not far behind. 

They walk through the quiet halls of the Autobot Citadel. On such a high floor there are actually few bots around. Those that are tend to be of higher ranks, or grunts (un)lucky enough to be given tasks to do amongst the volatile Autobot officers. 

Needless to say the environment up here is different from the rest of the Imperium. Somewhere on this floor lies the council room, and a few more floors up are the living quarters for many of the council officers. Things tend to be much more casual amongst the bots on these levels. Any mech they come across immediately stops whatever they’re doing to greet and bow to the Prime as he walks by, as they should. Except for Chromia, who upon seeing the Prime, scowls, and then promptly keeps walking. 

Ironhide scowls, he’ll endeavour to disembowel her another time. The Lord Prime meanwhile, watches her defy him in silence and goes about his business. 

That’s one thing Ironhide doesn’t understand about his lord. Not that he is entitled to understand the inner workings of the Prime’s mind, of course not! But…as a mech with a mind of his own Ironhide has questions, and they make him feel wrong. Does he not have faith? How could he have any doubts of his beloved Prime? Yet still, Ironhide wonders about Optimus Prime’s lenience towards such behaviour from some of his officers. 

Granted, Chromia isn’t so much an Autobot officer as she is an agent of Elita One—she’s highlighted that distinction on several occasions—but such open defiance from anyone shouldn’t be treated with apathy. 

Humility is a virtue, and generosity is the mark of any kind spark. But sometimes Ironhide wonders if his lord might be a little too kind. At least in Ironhide’s lowly opinion. Which again, makes the ever loyal warrior of Primus want to drive a stake through his own spark. 

Just as Ironhide’s inner turmoil begins to reach its zenith, he follows his master as he reaches what appears to have been his desired destination—a balcony, rising high over the Iaconian skyline and providing a lovely view of the Cybertronian twilight horizon. 

The Prime walks to the railing and looks out as his domain. The setting sun lights his frame in ethereal ways. 

“Ironhide,” Lord Prime speaks for the first time since they left Perceptor’s lab. 

“My lord?” Ironhide replies. 

The Prime turns to his devoted servant. “You did well today.”

Ironhide bows, a servo over his spark. “Thank you master.”

“You always serve me well, Ironhide, and for that I will always be grateful to you.” The Lord Prime says, sending Ironhide’s spark into a flurry of pious ecstasy. “You deserve a reward.”

Ironhide stalls. 

“…your praise is more than enough reward for me, my lord.”

Optimus Prime has offered rewards to him several times, but Ironhide has declined the offer at every turn. Just because he can, absolutely does not mean that he should. 

“I’d give you myself.” The Prime had declared, explaining the rewards that were now so coveted by the Autobot ranks. “My body, my service. I would be yours to do with as as you please.”

Ironhide shudders at the thought—he doesn’t even want to think of it! He doesn’t want to imagine his powerful lord submitting before any of his servants, especially some of the more unsavoury ones he keeps in close council. 

He knows most of his ‘comrades’ trip over themselves to be rewarded. He knows that they’re all too happy to take advantage of their time with the Prime. He also knows some of what they like to do—what with several Autobots being unable to keep their damn vocalizers offline—and some of what the bots like bragging about shock and horrify him. 

Truly, Optimus Prime is the kindest mech alive.

Ironhide cannot fathom how brazen these mechs are, how casually and enthusiastically they rain their perversity down on their leader. None of them possess any reverence for the Lord Prime, or his disposition. Even the temple mechs don’t perform their duties properly. 

Though annoying, it’s not entirely their fault. Most of them—including Ironhide—matured under the rule of the old high council. With the creation of the Factories the council were able to divert recognition and position themselves as gods, anointing puppet Primes and systematically expunging the Temples’s authority and deforming them into tools of the state. It was a dark time, an era of heresy. No wonder these older bots didn’t understand a true Prime’s significance beyond his immense physical strength and other terrifying powers. 

Ironhide, at least, knows his place. He knows how important the true Prime is. He wouldn’t dare sully his master’s frame with his touch—his pathetic, doubtful touch. 

The Lord Prime cocks his helm.

“Ironhide—“

“You are far too kind, Master!” Ironhide blurted, stepping forward. He’s immediately regretful, as the Prime’s deeply crimson optics stare at him. With his face behind the mask at all times, Ironhide just can’t read his master’s thoughts. 

“Do you really think so, Ironhide?” The Prime says evenly. 

Ironhide bows even deeper. “Forgive my outburst master!”

“Ironhide,” Prime speaks firmly. “If you have a grievance with something I do please—as one of my most treasured servants—feel free to let me know.”

Ironhide clenches his fists tight. “…you are the Prime. The Matrix bearer. None of these stupid laybots seem to understand what that means. They don’t fathom the living miracle that lives amongst them. And…and you more or less allow it.”

As relieving it is to finally speak it out loud, Ironhide feels terrible. He says he understand the Prime’s sanctity, yet here he is questioning him.

The following silence threatens to suffocate the pious mech’s very spark.

Then at last, the Prime speaks again. “I do not want blind obedience. I do not want to rule over a world of drones. Stand, Ironhide.”

Ironhide obeys. He tries to keep his gaze downwards, but the Lord Prime raises his large servo to tip his servant’s helm up. 

“I know you were raised in a Temple. I know how much the Matrix, and I mean to you.”

“So—“

“But I have little appreciation for zealots.” Prime interrupts. “From before I bore the Matrix, and even now.” 

To that, Ironhide has nothing to say. If he has displeased his Lord Prime for so long without realizing it, then he doesn’t deserve to be at his side. 

“Which is why it pleases me to know that even you have questions.”

Ironhide gasps, meeting his lord’s optics again. Now, they are undeniably soft. 

“I don’t deserve such praise.”

“I say you do.”

Ironhide pauses. “At the very least my lord, you deserve better worship than you’ve received.”

Unconsciously Ironhide outreaches his arm, towards the Prime’s chest plates, beneath which the Matrix undoubtedly resides. It’s bearer leans forward, letting Ironhide’s servo make contact. 

“Then perhaps you should demonstrate exactly what it is you believe I deserve.” The Prime says. 

A moment of hesitation, then Ironhide kneels, a smile on his lips. 

_Yes_ , he thinks, staring at the mighty pedes of the Matrix bearer. _If it is proper worship he wants then—_

“At your command, my Lord Prime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shoddy ending, but this chapter has been giving me so much trouble I honestly just wanted it done. Hopefully the next one will be smoother sailing.

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't a particular focus but I've never written "steamy" scenes before. Can you tell?


End file.
